I Could Not Slow Down
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Following on from Series 2 Episode 5, this story speculates about the future of Sister Bernadette's relationship with Dr. Turner.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, this is my first foray into Call the Midwife fanfic, so I hope it's alright. **

She hadn't quite been able to shake off the memory. Standing in the clinic kitchen, her hand still damp and cold from being under the tap, still stinging where she had fallen and grazed her palm and the top of her wrist, his hand holding hers very carefully, him, tracing the lines of her palm as much as he examined her wound. Bowing his head and raising her hand to his lips to kiss the inside of her hand, his eyes closing. His lips were so soft. She had had to snatch her hand away from him. It was the most intimate thing another human being had ever done to her. She didn't know what else to do.

She knew it was wrong. She couldn't stop thinking about him. Her mind reeled in tandem; knowing it was wrong, thinking about him, over and over, all day and most of the night. Even when she prayed, she thought of him: heavenly light was now the light from the kitchen window behind his ear; when she read her Bible she heard the words in his voice, even the incense burned at the alter smelled like the cigarettes he smoked. Her definition of God was becoming ever more married to her perception of him. This was so very wrong.

Was this love? And if it was, why did it hurt like this? Love for God never hurt like this. It wasn't even a physical pain; it was a torment of the mind and a leaden heart; images of their moments to together, of his face, stretched back, playing like a reel of pictures, in glaringly vivid colours again and again until she wanted to be sick. Except, it wasn't all bad, not all of it _felt_ bad. In spite of herself, she would feel the most fleeting rush of excitement when she saw him at work in the clinic, a tiny fluttering of the stomach, feel herself colour a little when his eyes met hers for a moment.

She knew she should do something to stop this. Her instinct was to tell someone, but who? As much as it pained her, she didn't dare trust one of the younger midwives; she feared perhaps the temptation to gossip on the lively evenings they spent playing records in each other's rooms would be too great. She cringed with embarrassment at the thought of telling Sister Julienne, who she was sure didn't have an impure bone in her body, how she felt, and she didn't trust Sister Evangelina not to have her exorcised. It wasn't that she was frightened of it, exactly; she was just firmly convince that it wouldn't make the slightest difference to how she felt.

It might have been sensible to purposefully avoid him, but that was nearly impossible when she had to work with him and that too, she was convinced, would probably be useless. She thought of him, whether she saw him or not. But still, perhaps, she had been avoiding being alone with him. She realised this only when it happened again, and she felt a surprising mixture of their situation being familiar with the strangeness of something that has not happened for a little while. She was pinning the new rota for who was on duty to answer the telephone up onto the wall in the corridor of Nonnatus House.

"Hello, Sister."

She turned around, hearing his voice.

He was standing before her a little shyly, at a respectful distance. His hair was looking very neat, she noticed, and the evening light that shone in through the windows had a pleasing effect on his complexion.

"Hello, Doctor," she answered, smiling a little in return, "What brings you here? Nothing's the matter, I hope?"

"No, nothing," he replied, "I came here to see Sister Julienne. We needed to talk about one of Nurse Lee's patients who has been causing us some small difficulties, but it's nothing for you to worry about."

"I hope you made some inroads into the problem," she told him.

"We did," he replied, "Like I say, it is no matter for great concern."

She had opened her mouth to excuse herself and say goodbye, when he, seeming to have realised this, spoke again, in an altogether different voice.

"Sister," he told her quietly, "I also came hoping that I might be able to see you."

"That was kind of you," she told him sincerely, "But I saw you yesterday at the clinic, Doctor."

"You know that isn't what I mean," he replied swiftly, his tone still hushed and his brow creasing in a slight frown, his eyes looking a little hurt, "I understand that you can't have anything to do with me, I know perfectly well that you have vows to keep, and I have the utmost respect that and for you, but don't pretend that you don't understand what I'm saying. I wanted to see you alone," he told her, "I doubt we even spoke yesterday, and if we did it will have been about work. That's why I wanted to see you," he finished a little weakly, "Because it feels like we haven't spoken properly in weeks. I wanted to know how you are."

"I'm very well," she replied, not knowing what else to say.

He raised an eyebrow at her, seeing that she was deliberately and knowing avoiding his real meaning again.

"I don't mean your health," he told her softly, but not without a hint of firmness in his tone, "How are _you_?"

So he knew then, he knew that what had happened in the kitchen had unsettled her. Who was to say how much else he knew, how much he could reasonably guess? He very much had her cornered, although she was sure it had not been his intention to make her feel like this. Almost without realising it, it seemed, he had taken a few tentative steps towards her, and they were much closer together now than they had been before.

"I-..." she knew she should lie to him, this was the one time for her when lying might be justified, but she felt the wrongness of it catch in her throat. She couldn't mislead him, couldn't knowingly do him wrong like that, "I can't stop thinking-..." she could not finish. She bowed her head, avoiding his eyes.

"Thinking what?" he asked her softly.

"About you," she told him, "God forgive me."

"Don't say that," he reached out, his voice imploring, taking one of her hands gently in his, "It is I who must ask to be forgiven."

She did not dare to pull her hand away, his hold on her fingers, though careful was firmer than before, and she thought he felt less willing to let go. Hesitantly, she looked up at him, meeting his eyes fully and not breaking their gaze in spite of her apprehension.

"You did only what I wanted you to," she confessed, "I am the one in the wrong. I have vowed to forswear this... feeling and you have not. I-..."

"Listen," he told her fervently, "You haven't done anything wrong. Things like this will happen, your feelings are entirely natural. I should have been more careful, but by the time I realised, it-... I think it was too late," he sighed, and she wondered in that moment if he felt as helpless in all of this as she did, "I should have known better. But you have done nothing wrong. There are not many people as good as you, Sister Bernadette," he told her.

She smiled weakly in return. He was still holding her hand. Their fingers were linked now. She bowed her head again, watching their hands together.

"And you're beautiful," he told her, "You're very beautiful."

She looked back up at him, her lips parted in surprise. When she knew she should have dropped his hand and walked away, her fingers tightened against his. He seemed to know that this declaration must join the list of things he shouldn't be saying and doing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

She couldn't even tell him not to be sorry, her voice had stopped altogether. She knew she should drop his hand and run; she was rooted to the spot.

"I'm sorry, Sister," he told her, "But I have to do this."

She felt him let go of her hand, and raise both of his hands to her face, his thumbs gently brushing her cheeks. His lips pressed briefly into hers, kissing her tenderly. She heard her breath hiss in a tiny gasp of surprise, and her hands rested on his elbows, only partly to imply a semblance of restraint, partly out of pure want to touch him.

As he kissed her again, more deeply, his hands moved away from her face to her waist to hold her. The movement was awkward but then she doubted very much that her nun's habits had been made with this in mind. He was still so soft and careful, and at the same time so warm and inviting. She could not stop him, she did not even want to stop him. This was wonderful, she realised. The perfect antidote to all the pain she had been feeling in the past week. This kiss, this soft, loving embrace, the feeling of his hands on her and his mouth dancing against hers as she kissed him back now, her lips parting under his, and she could not slow down and-...

"Sister!"

If anything could have made her break away from him like a shot, it was that word. She reacted so quickly, that she didn't even have time to withdraw her arms from where they now rested on his chest, her head swivelling around to see who was there, her mind too panicked to realise whose voice it was. She felt Dr. Turner's arms fall from around her and they both took a hurried step back.

Sister Julienne stood in the doorway of her office, her face the picture of shock.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for your kind reviews. I'm really enjoying writing this story, and the next chapter is already beginning to form in my head. This chapter is a bit different to yesterday's but I hope you will like it. **

For a moment, the world seemed to stand horribly still. And then it began to move again in time with Sister Julienne- recovering herself as best she could and straightening up a little. She even managed to smile a little.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," she addressed Doctor Turner, dismissing him concisely and a hint of pointedness in her voice, but somehow without reproach.

Sister Bernadette nearly quivered in pity at the look of absolute embarrassment she saw on the doctor's face when she turned to him. He looked genuinely ashamed of himself, and even a little crimson in contrast to his usual cool complexion.

He had to clear his throat a little in order to speak.

"Good afternoon, Sister," he addressed Sister Julienne, sounding grateful, perhaps for her apparent lack of anger, perhaps for the chance she had given to make his exit. Bernadette could not blame him for that, she would have considered it a great blessing if the floor had swallowed her up there and then. He turned back to her before he went, nodding gently, "Sister."

She made the mistake of meeting his eyes. She stared back into them, and found every evidence of great feeling, of love, perhaps, crushed disappointment, of tenderness, in them, almost as great as she could feel in every inch of her own body. Her lips parted a little, though she did not know what she could possibly say, but he had already taken his leave, running his hand a through the front of his hair a little in agitation as he went. She could not take her eyes off his retreating figure, until he reached the door at the end of the corridor, and she felt her own shoulders sag hopelessly, her eyes falling to look at the floor.

She did not realise that her breathing had become a little laboured until she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning a little in surprise, she found Sister Julienne standing close behind her, watching her in great concern.

"Come on," the elder nun told her quietly, "Come with me."

She led her not back into her office as she had expected, but along the corridor to the chapel, shutting the door soundly behind them.

"I trust we won't be disturbed in here," she told her, "Please, let's sit down."

"I'm sorry, Sister," Bernadette told her, the words bursting out a little from her. She knew why Sister Julienne had brought her here as opposed to her office- here she felt a deeper compulsion to honesty, to openness, than she would have done anywhere else. She was less likely to hold back, and the effect was telling in the way her words spluttered a little from her mouth as she struggled to contain her emotion, tears forming in her eyes a little as she repeated, "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Sister Julienne assured her, "Not to me. Thankful, perhaps, that I found you rather than Sister Evangelina, but please don't apologise to me. Sit down," she told her again, "It will calm you."

Her knees feeling a little weak, Bernadette sank gratefully into the front row of chairs; Sister Julienne joining her a moment later with a little more grace. They were quiet for a moment; though she was not watching her, she got the sense that Sister Julienne was weighing up the best approach to take.

"I can't for a moment imagine that it might be the case," she began quietly, watching her own clasped hands, but with an air of certainty, of knowing where she was going, "But I feel I have to ask you: was Dr. Turner forcing his attentions on you?"

"No," Bernadette shook her head fervently, sure of that if nothing else, "He wasn't."

Sister Julienne nodded calmly.

"Then, I take it," she continued carefully, "That what I just witnessed was a demonstration of what you could not put into words when we spoke last week?"

Silently, Bernadette nodded; the tears forming in her eyes falling a little onto her cheeks. She wiped them away vigorously, though she knew she could not hide them from Sister Julienne.

"Hush, child," the older nun told her, arresting her hand, and holding it, trying to sooth her a little, "Truly, I am not angry with you. However, I am concerned. Sister, I know I would have not found you as I did if you did not feel very acutely for Dr. Turner."

"I don't know what I feel," Bernadette confided helplessly.

"Possibly not," Sister Julienne replied, "But in time I think you will come to realise what is quite clear to me now and what I should have seen before."

Bernadette looked up at her desperately, needing to silence the words she knew were about to come forth and which she knew she could not hear.

"I can't, Sister," she struggled a little to find the right words, "I don't-..."

"You can, because you do," Sister Julienne insisted calmly, "You love Dr. Turner. You are too devoted, Sister, to be affected like this by a passing infatuation. If it were that, you would be content to clamour to assist the doctor about the clinic, to make him tea when he visits us and generally make a fool of yourself in front of him, and quite enjoy yourself while you were about it. But you're not enjoying yourself, are you? Those things don't even cross your mind. I've seen you when you're with him, and this is why I'm shocked that I didn't realise this before. You're quiet and composed around him, you want to be of real use to him. You want to help him in the best, the deepest way. You love him. Child, don't cry," she took hold of her hand gently on her lap, as Bernadette's other hand pressed to her mouth to stem the vigorous flow of tears that threatened.

"What I feel for him isn't like what I feel for God," Bernadette tried to explain, "When I pray I think of him sometimes, but the feelings are quite separate."

"There are many ways in which we can love, Sister," Sister Julienne told her, "It is entirely natural that you should feel differently for a man than you do for God. It does not mean that you love either any the less."

Bernadette said nothing, taking out her handkerchief, mopping at her eyes.

"But, I know I need not tell you," Sister Julienne continued rather gravely, watching the younger nun closely, "As a member of our order, you cannot go on kissing the doctor, or letting him kiss you."

Bernadette sniffed a little, allowing Sister Julienne's gravity to wash over her little. She paused, so many thoughts and notions having been so quickly and deeply impressed upon her during this conversation that she could hardly pause to consider them, and had had to merely accept them for the moment. She trusted, had always trusted Sister Julienne's judgement, and knew she should not stop because now she was telling her things that were difficult to hear.

"Can I go on loving him?" she asked, "And remain one of you?"

Sister Julienne looked at her very carefully, her face a touch surprised.

"You could," she answered slowly, "But I would not wish the hardship of that on you."

Bernadette nodded, unable to look up at the other woman.

"I don't expect you know what you want at the moment," Sister Julienne told her, "And nor do I expect you to reach a decision at any time in the near future. But I am gravely certain that this coming time will be one of trial for you. I want you to know that I am here, to listen, whenever you need. You need not be alone in this, even if you cannot have the person you would like to listen. God will be with you, but I know that sometimes it helps to have some human ears to listen to you."

As strongly as she could manage, Bernadette smiled at her.

"You were very young when you came to us," Sister Julienne reminded her gently, "At the time I wondered if it was sensible that you should join so soon, but every day since then you have impressed me and assuaged my doubts. Both through your skill and competence and your devotion to your calling. But we are only human, Sister Bernadette. Do not be sorry. By all means confess, but let the guilt fall from you with your confession. To expect an immunity to feeling would be to fly in the face of God."

Bernadette nodded silently, rhythmically, still looking down at her hands.

"And now, what I think you could do with is some nice, strong, sweet tea. And we shall see if we can persuade Sister Monica Joan to share with us that excellent cakes she's been hoarding."

They both stood up. Sister Julienne clasped her hand one last time.

"I will pray for you, Sister," she told her kindly, "And I am here."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm a little bit terrified to publish this chapter; I really hope you like it. Your reviews have been so kind; thank you! **

For a few days now she had been forming a plan. This in itself was unusual; even in her work she preferred it when there were clear orders and commands to follow. Planning something like this, though- something secretive, something potentially wrong, even- simply went against the grain of the life she had been leading for years. But everything she needed to carry off this... she wouldn't exactly call it a scheme, that stretched beyond the qualities she considered to be very much her own- the radical intuition, the furtiveness, the willingness to err from the clear-cut morality to which she had been accustomed- seemed to arise from her conviction that carrying out her plan, however dubious it seemed, was of the utmost necessity. She had to see him; she needed to see him and speak to him alone, somewhere where they could not be interrupted. If she did not, she would not be able to think; and she badly needed to be able to think in order to try to understand all of this. She was not fond of making melodramatic claims, but she felt that if she understand this she would no longer understand the life she wanted or was trying to lead, and then she could easily go mad.

So, on Thursday, during the afternoon when she had no assigned duties, which she would usually spend in the chapel or the sitting room of Nonnatus House, she wheeled her bicycle out of the shed and set off peddling quickly around the corner- praying that Sister Evangelina would not choose that moment to look out of the window. Peddling down the streets of Poplar, she kept her eyes fixed on the road; determined not to meet the gaze of any passerby. It was absurd, but she had the strangest feeling that if she did they would see through her immediately, her secret would be out. She was not proud of what she was doing, but she needed to. She wanted to be invisible, she wanted to do this without anyone in the world knowing. How absurd it was, that anyone passing in the street could have guessed from as little as the humbly determined look that they could see for no longer than a second that the nun zooming past them on a bicycle, was on her way to see the man she loved, and could not love.

She knew where he lived; one night there had been a difficult birth on his street, and Sister Julienne had sent her to fetch him. He had come to the door in his dressing gown, half-asleep, but as soon as he saw who was there had sharpened up and come dashing after her in his carpet slippers. Thinking of Sister Julienne, she felt guilty for a moment. She had been so kind, and now Bernadette felt she was deceiving her by going to him rather than to her, by not even telling her that she was going to him.

But still, she felt it was too late to turn back; her feet would not stop peddling, they refused to slow down. She had already taken the plunge; she needed to do this. Her conviction was only enhanced when, her eyes fixed on the road in front of her, she forgot to check the crossroads and she almost collided with a van. She gasped, slamming her feet onto the ground just in time. His was only the next street: what if she had been knocked off her bicycle when she was this close and been taken back to Nonnatus House, and questions were asked? What if she had been badly hurt, and she hadn't had the chance to see him?

She knew now that if the Lord had wanted to stop her, he would have knocked her clean off her bicycle. And he had not.

She left her bicycle propped up against the wall of his house, under the window. Brushing the creases out of her habit, she raised her hand and knocked at the door once, and then twice, harder, when at first there was no reply. No sound came from the house for a few long moments, and she began to wonder if he was out on a call. But then she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

His expression as he opened the door and saw who was there was one of definite surprise, which he struggled to cover up as soon as he remembered himself.

"Sister, hello," the surprise told a little in his voice too.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," she replied, immensely surprised that her voice was not audibly shaking, "I hope I haven't come at a bad moment."

"Not at all," he told her, "I was about to have a lie down before Timothy comes back from school."

"Oh, I'm sorry I disturbed you," she told him, feeling stupidly inconsiderate, "Haven't you been sleeping well?"

She got the impression from the rather raw look she caught in his eye for a moment that if he hadn't it was probably her fault; and she felt her embarrassment deepen.

"Of course you haven't disturbed me," he replied firmly, "Please come in. I'm glad to see you."

He stepped back to let her across the threshold, and then closed the door behind her.

"Please, go through," he told her, "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," she replied, "Please don't trouble yourself, Doctor."

"It's no trouble," he replied, but he followed her into the room and indicated that she should sit wherever she liked.

She settled herself on the settee in the centre of the room and he took the armchair facing her. It was impossible for her to relax back into the chair, and she sat straight with her hands clasped on her knees, her head inclined towards the floor. The room was full of afternoon light, and she felt very exposed in its brightness, however beautiful it was. They were quiet. It seemed that after planning and planning to come here, of fixating on the need to see him, she could not think of an earthly thing to say now that she had. Whatever drive, whatever great conviction had brought her here seemed to have fallen flat. She hoped he was not waiting for her to begin; they could be waiting a long time.

"Are you alright, Sister?" he asked her after a little while.

"I... I don't know what to say," she confessed finally, trying to look up at him, not quite being able to meet his eyes, "I'm sorry, I've come here to talk to you, I've disturbed you and I don't know what to say to you."

"Don't apologise," he told her, "It doesn't matter. I'm very glad you're here. I've been worried about you. I hope I didn't get you into trouble with Sister Julienne?"

She shook her head.

"She was very kind to me," she told him, "She said she understood. I'm glad someone does."

He smiled a little at that.

"She is a good woman," he remarked. There was a slight pause. "But have you been alright?" he asked her carefully.

"Yes," she replied, breathing deeply at the same time, knowing that he would be able to tell immediately that she was lying.

He looked at her with wide, almost inadvertently pitying eyes.

"We both know that you wouldn't be here if that were true," he told her.

They were both quiet; she could not contradict him.

"I want to talk," she told him, "But I don't know how. Not like this."

"Then don't tell me what you want. Tell me what you need."

She drew a ragged breath, closing her eyes. That was such a difficult thing when they weren't talking about spirit lamps and water heaters. He seemed to realise this too.

"Would you like me to talk?" he asked her, "There are things that I would like to say to you too, Sister."

She nodded wordlessly.

"Very well, then," he began, a frown beginning to form on his brow as he thought for a moment. "First of all, Sister, I must beg your forgiveness. I have done you wrong. Twice now I have pushed you into what I know I should not have. I have put you in an impossible and compromising position. My only defence is that at the time I felt that I could not help myself. I realise now that I could have done, had I been better behaved, and you have every right to be furious with me."

"I'm not furious," she replied, "Not with you."

"Then you're being too kind to me," he told her.

"No," she insisted, "You didn't push me, Doctor," she registered the surprise in his face and wondered if she'd said too much. "Please don't worry about that. As for compromising positions, I seem more than capable of getting myself into those," she tried a weak smile, "After all, _I _came here.

He smiled at her, seeming amazed that she could even try to laugh at a moment like this. She was not amazed; but then, she knew that she was doing it to avoid discussing the seemingly insurmountable issue of what she needed.

She smiled as best she could and said again: "You didn't push me. I hardly know what did, but I know _that._"

He nodded briefly and they were quiet again.

"Would you like a cigarette?" he asked her, after a few moments, "If it would make you feel better. A Henley?"

In spite of herself, a genuine smile broke out on her face.

"Go on, then," she answered, "Just the one."

He took his cigarettes out of the pocket of his jacket, which hung over the back of a chair by the desk in the corner; taking out two and passing one to her. She put it cautiously to her lips, and he lit it for her. She took a long breath of the familiar taste, closing her eyes for a moment, remembering the last time she had shared his cigarettes, on that clear and bright morning after the Carter twins were born, and wondered if he was remembering it too.

He was.

"That's the closest I've ever come to hitting a woman," he told her, "That night when Meg Carter struck you across the face."

"It didn't matter," she told him, "She was frightened that she would lose her sister. She was in worse pain than I was."

"I was livid," he continued quietly, "That she dared to hurt you. And now it seems that I've hurt you just as badly. Haven't I?"

"You haven't hurt me at all, Doctor," she replied, "You have... confused me, perhaps, but not hurt," A thought suddenly occurred to her, "Unless you mean to tell me that I mean nothing to you. That you have... caused me this turmoil and I mean nothing to you. Only that could truly hurt me."

"No!" he insisted emphatically, "How could you think that?" he asked incredulously, "You are worth more than..." he struggled for words, "I could never be worthy of you," he finished a little hopelessly, "I don't even mean that I'm not worth breaking your vows for, though I'm not. I'm not worthy of _you_, nor the wonderful person you are."

"Doctor..."

"It's true!" he pressed, "I won't say any more, Sister, if it makes you uncomfortable, but I can't deny it now. It's true. Which is why I should not have acted as I did."

"You are not unworthy of me," she assured him, "God values us both equally. There is not one inch of me that's better than you."

She saw his cigarette quiver a little as his hand trembled.

"Sister, I'm sorry," he told her again, "I should have controlled myself. I should have had more consideration for you."

"Don't be sorry," she told him this time, "I know you'd have stopped if I'd told you to. And I didn't."

"This is hopeless," he sighed, "Your church is always telling us how imperfect people are, and only now I'm realising how true that is."

She nodded.

"We are both to blame," she agreed, "At least, equally complicit. I'm still not convinced that what is between us is bad," she could not believe she had voiced that out loud, after days and nights of telling herself how wrong she was, "I know I should believe it, but I can't make myself. That's why it's such a torment," she admitted, feeling her eyes fill with tears.

And she was sobbing- she crumbled-, and tears fell onto her cheeks, and he stood up quickly, taking her cigarette away from her and extinguishing them both in the ashtray on the small table beside the settee. He sank back down to sit beside her, pulling her into his arms and holding her close to him. She leant towards him, both shocked and helped by their sudden closeness. For a while now she had felt as if she had been floundering in open space without moorings, and now she was very much fixed. She felt him press a kiss into her forehead, and then another, and then one to her lips, parted in surprise.

"Sister, I love you," he murmured, "If it helps you at all to know how I feel. I know I shouldn't, I know you didn't ask me to, but I have fallen for you. I love you."

She pressed a single, brief kiss back into his lips and allowed him to hold her for a few moments more.

"I should probably go," she told him quietly.

"Yes," he agreed with audible reluctance, "You're right. You probably should."

"I don't want to," she told him as she got up, straightening her clothes, "But I have to. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he told her again, following her into the corridor to see her out.

She almost told him "God be with you" but the words would not come out, so she simply said "Goodbye."

"Goodbye Sister. Until tomorrow."

Her hands trembled a little on the handlebars of her bike, but she gained a little more control as her feet sped up, and this time she was sure to watch the road more carefully.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

She almost died of shock when, sitting up in bed with the lamp still on, she heard a gentle tap on her door that shook her from her reverie. For the first time in years, she was not wearing her nightcap or her glasses. Her hair hung down her back in loose plait. Her nightcap hung on the back of the door under her dressing gown. She paused for a moment. Whoever had knocked would hear if she got up to get it.

"Come in," she called quietly in reply.

She was not all that surprised it was Sister Julienne's face, clad properly in her nightcap, that appeared cautiously around the door. A look of surprise passed over her face as she saw that Bernadette was not wearing her nightcap, but she quickly disguised it and stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly. She was holding a steaming mug.

"I saw the light on under your door," she explained, offering her the mug, "I thought you might like some hot milk."

"That was kind. Thank you, Sister," Bernadette told her, taking it from her.

"Would you mind if I sat down, Sister?" Sister Julienne asked, indicating to the empty wooden chair next to the small bedside cabinet.

"By all means," Bernadette replied, taking a sip of her milk.

Sister Julienne deftly moved the chair to the side of the bed, settling herself down, giving every impression of being comfortable although the chair was bare and rather hard. She smiled kindly at Bernadette, and Bernadette smiled back, rather shyly. The hot milk, having her hair down, Sister Julienne acting like a mother; she really had anything like this since her own mother was alive, and she had been very small then. Perhaps that was why she felt so very young now.

"Can't you sleep, Sister?" Sister Julienne asked her.

"I tried for a little while," Bernadette told her, "It's always a little more difficult when I haven't been working all day. I'm never as tired."

As a generalisation this was perfectly true, but she knew that tonight it was not an absence of tiredness that was keeping her awake. In her head she had being going over and over what had happened today in Dr. Turner's sitting room; trying so hard to concentrate on what she had felt, what it had made her feel, that she was unable to recapture any emotion at all, so that it became a list of actions, a silent film of images and blinding colours. It was dizzying, and a little nauseating, but having tried so hard at first, later she had not been able to stop.

"Yes," Sister Julienne agreed quietly, "That is understandable."

They were both quiet for a moment, and Sister Bernadette drank some of her milk. She did not mind Sister Julienne being here, if anything it was a welcome diversion from the uneasiness she felt in her mind during her solitude.

"On the subject," Sister Julienne began, very carefully, giving the impression that she was somewhat steeling herself to say something, "Of your not having worked a full day. Do you want to tell me where you were? You cannot think that we did not notice your absence," she remarked, as Bernadette's mouth opened in surprise at this sudden confrontation, "In a community as tight-knit as ours. As you know, Sister Monica-Joan spends a good deal of time about Nonnatus House, and asked why you were not there to brighten up her Thursday afternoon. So do you want to tell me," she asked, "Or am I to make do with my intuition that it had something to do with the fact that Dr. Turner was not on call this afternoon?"

Bernadette felt her had shake a little, her cheeks colouring furiously in embarrassment, and she had to put her hot milk down on the bedside cabinet to make sure she didn't spill it into her lap.

"I'm sorry, child," Sister Julienne told her, "I didn't mean to upset you. I only-..."

"Yes, I was with Doctor Turner," she admitted, unable to look at the older nun, staring straight at the wardrobe in front of her, "I went to his house."

"I see," Sister Julienne remarked in a level voice, "Did he invite you to?"

"No," she replied, "I just went. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Sister, I know it was wrong of me when you've been so kind. I thought you would try to stop me, and I felt as if I had to go."

"My kindness is irrelevant," the older nun told her flatly, "You will have it no matter what. And, you are right, I would have probably advised you not to go. But you did, and there is nothing any of us can do to change that. Did it help?" she asked curiously, "Your going?"

"I don't know," she confessed, "Perhaps not. At the time it felt like it did, I thought I would explode if I didn't see him. But now it seems to have made things so much more... difficult."

She saw a shadow of real worry pass over Sister Julienne's face, as quickly as she could frown and then relax her features again, remaining a little uneasy, though.

"Difficult how?" she asked, as delicately as possible.

Bernadette could not answer.

"Child, I am well aware that it must seem as if I am prying too deeply into affairs that are not my own," Sister Julienne told her, "I do it only because I can see the torment that silence is costing you, and because I would do anything in the world that I could to help you. I do not know that I will be able to offer any practical advice, but I would like to try. I can offer you the comfort of what the Lord has taught me, and hope that that may do some good," she looked at her very closely, "What happened today at Dr. Turner's house?"

Bernadette, her head still bowed, took a deep breath. It helped that without her glasses her vision of Sister Julienne was a little bit unfocused.

"We talked," she replied, "We tried to talk and to understand each other better. We weren't particularly successful in that."

Sister Julienne gave her an understanding smile, willing her to go on.

"I got upset," Bernadette continued, "So he tried to comfort me. He kissed me. Held me. I kissed him too. Only once. Then I left."

She saw Sister Julienne visibly breath a sigh of relief at these last two sentences. It occurred to her that Sister Julienne was thinking that it would not do to have one of the sister of Nonnatus House fall into the same condition as their charges.

"You were right to do that, I think," Sister Julienne told her.

There was a heavy silence between the two of them.

"Oh, child," Sister Julienne spoke in a voice that was half-level, half-imploring, "Do not think me hysterical or paranoid in acknowledging what could have happened, and being grateful that it did not. Of course, you are obedient to your vow of chastity but let us not pretend that you are unfamiliar with the facts of life any more than the women we tend to every day. When a woman swears her life to God, it does not change the fact that she is a woman and that under the habit there is a heart and body quite like any other. I have to let you know that I would not judge you the worse if it had happened, but nonetheless I am exceptionally grateful that it did not."

Her cheeks glowing scarlet, Bernadette was sure she had never been more embarrassed in her life.

"Do you really think me capable of that?" she asked.

"If anyone ever implies that they are not capable of it," Sister Julienne replied simply, "They are lying or inhuman. Besides, gestures of affection have taken place between yourself and the doctor" she observed, "I, of all people, know this, having inadvertently witnessed it! And I am under the impression that those gestures, between the two of you, took place with as much feeling, as much care, as much passion as the act of love ever does."

She simply stated it and did not ask Bernadette to confirm or deny her suspicion.

"Dr. Turner," Bernadette told her slowly, "Told me that he loved me. While he was holding me. He said he knew I hadn't asked him to, but he did."

"Was that what upset you?" Sister Julienne enquired, "You said he comforted you because something that was said upset you. Was that it?"

"No," Bernadette replied, "What upset me was that he told me he was unworthy of me."

"That is an untrue thing to hear," Sister Julienne assessed, "But not a surprising one. Dr. Turner, I believe, has suffered a great deal since his wife passed away. I wouldn't let it upset you," she remarked rather wryly, "I expect half the girls in Poplar would eat their lipstick to hear something similar."

"I was trying to explain to him how I felt," Bernadette continued, "And I told him the truth; I can't bring myself to feel that what is between us is bad. I've tried to tell myself that it's wrong but I can't."

"Love is never wrong, child," the older nun told her quietly, "Only its manifestations."

"And then he held me," Bernadette finished meekly, "And said that he loved me."

"Perhaps he oughtn't to have told you that," Sister Julienne mused, "Knowing that cannot have made things easier for you."

"I don't think he could help it," she replied, "In a way, it was better to know. He kept telling me he was sorry. I thought he regretted... the things that have happened. That he had caused me to doubt and felt nothing himself."

"So you do, then?" Sister Julienne asked, "Doubt?"

There was a pause.

"I don't know."

"You're not certain that you don't, though?"

Another silence.

"No," Bernadette conceded, "I'm not."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, "Anything at all."

"I don't think so, Sister," Bernadette replied, "But thank you for listening to me."

"I could not rest thinking that you had a burdened conscience," Sister Julienne told her, "I hope I have helped in some small way."

Bernadette smiled.

"You have, Sister. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, child."

As Bernadette lay down and pulled up the covers, Sister Julienne switched off the beside lamp, picking up the empty mug before making her way quietly to the door.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

"Sister Bernadette," she heard Sister Evangelina's voice from the doorway, "Sister Julienne's on the telephone asking for you."

It was Thursday again, and this week she had thought it best to remain in the safety of the sitting room of Nonnatus House and mend Cynthia's stockings for her while she was out on a call. However, hearing a definite hint of urgency in Sister Evangelina's nonetheless calm tones, she quickly put the mending down and followed her out of the room.

"She asked for you personally," Sister Evangelina explained as they made haste towards the telephone, "So I think it must be something very specific."

It was unusual for anyone to ask for Bernadette specifically- expectant mothers usually asked for one of the younger midwives who had been at their check up and who they trusted. She was only called for in cases that were particularly difficult.

"Did she sound worried?" Bernadette asked her.

She knew that Sister Julienne had an excellently poised and well-trained manner, and it was unlikely that she ever would lose control so much as to give away her anxiety over the telephone. But Sister Evangelina had known her for years, and looked uneasy.

"I think she did, a bit," she admitted.

Bernadette snatched up the telephone receiver.

"Hello, Sister?"

"Sister Bernadette," it could be denied that Sister Julienne sounded immensely relieved, hearing her voice, "I know you're not on call at the moment, but I would be very grateful of your assistance."

"Of course, Sister," she replied, "What is the problem? Is there any more equipment I ought to bring?"

"Equipment is not the problem," Sister Julienne replied, sounding extremely grave, "I think we're going to lose the mother. She's very weak. She can't seem to remain conscious."

Bernadette was quiet. She didn't want to ask, she did not want to seem reluctant, but in cases which were obviously lost causes it was unusual to send for anyone else.

"I think her child could be saved," Sister Julienne's voice continued, "But I think we need you here to do that."

"Of course, Sister. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"We're in the Lisbon Buildings," she told her, "Jenny here with me. And Dr. Turner. Sister, I have to tell you that I'm worried about him."

Bernadette was silent. The last time she had seen him at any kind of close quarters was one week ago, when he had held her, when he had-...

"What's wrong?" she asked, surprising herself with the force in her voice.

"H takes it very badly when we lose a mother," Sister Julienne told her- unnecessarily, it wasn't as if she hadn't noticed before- "Since his wife died. I think he's frightened, it's affecting his judgement. I think it would help him greatly if you were here."

There was silence. She did not know what to say.

"Sister, I would not normally ask this of you, but now I do not see that I have a choice. I need your help. We-..."

"We can still save the baby," Bernadette replied curtly, "I'll be there, Sister," and put the receiver down.

"Lisbon Buildings," she told Sister Evangelina, "She thinks we're going to lose the mother."

"Get your coat on," Sister Evangelina replied, "I'll pack your bag."

"They said not to worry about equipment," Bernadette told her, "I only need to hurry."

"Off you go then. And God speed."

Not stopping to pick up her coat, she hurried down the steps of Nonnatus House, wheeling her bicycle into motion as she stepped onto it at such a speed that she almost overturned it. She peddled furiously; her mind fixed on the Lisbon Buildings and what awaited her there. She knew that the feeling of dread that arose within her was solely to do with the trepidation of not knowing how badly affected Dr. Turner was by what was going on. She had been called out to difficult births before, some where there was a danger that the mother would die, some where the mother had died, and they were tragic, but she had never feared them like this beforehand. It had always been a mission, something to try to overcome. Now she was terrified, and wanted nothing more than to peddle back to the safety of the house. But she was almost at the Lisbon Buildings.

"Lord, please help him," she thought desperately, "You don't have to help me, but just help him."

She found Jenny waiting for her at the door to show her the way up. She took her white gown out of her bag and quickly followed Jenny up the stairs.

"Sister Julienne said she'd telephoned for you," Jenny told her, "I'm not sure why she didn't earlier."

Bernadette decided to avoid that remark.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"The mother's in a very bad way," Jenny replied, "The baby had just been born when Sister Julienne told me to come down for you. They're a poor family and she wasn't very strong even before the birth. And the baby was born breach. I don't think she could stand the pain."

She could tell from the look on Jenny's face as much as from her words. It was going to be very bad indeed. She noticed that Jenny was not wearing her apron; she imagined that Sister Julienne would not let her leave the flat wearing it if it was soaked in blood.

Jenny opened the door of the flat gently and they both slipped in, through the narrow corridor that separated the kitchen from the sleeping quarters, and into a small, dimly-lit bedroom. As she had predicted, the scene was one which told of devastation. The first person she saw was Sister Julienne, turning towards the door with a look of mild surprise, but mainly of sadness. She was holding the child in her arms.

There was an awful silence.

"Are we too late?" Jenny asked her.

"For the mother," Sister Julienne replied solemnly, "The baby is breathing, but not easily."

They were still for a moment. Bernadette's eyes had found Doctor Turner now. He sat in the chair at the head end of the bed, looking straight down at the floor, his hands clasped as if in prayer and resting against his face. His shoulders shook a little. Bernadette turned back to Sister Julienne.

"Would you like me to take the child, Sister?" she asked her.

"Thank you, Sister. But I would ask Nurse Lee to take him," she replied, "I will need to go and inform Mr Grey about what has happened, and I imagine meeting his son will be of some comfort to him."

She handed the little boy carefully to Jenny.

"Such a tragedy," she remarked, once Jenny taken him the room, "He was their first child. I am sorry I did not send for you sooner. Perhaps then he would not be their only child."

"Please, don't blame yourself, Sister."

"I truly thought you would be able to do some good," Sister Julienne told her sincerely, her face lined with grief, Bernadette had never seen her look this distressed before, she was usually so stoical, "I would never have brought you out here if I thought it was hopeless."

"I know that," Bernadette told her, timidly clasping her hand.

Sister Julienne took a deep breath and composed herself.

"Thank you, Sister," she told her after a moment, "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry," Bernadette told her, watching her with concern.

"I must go and speak with Mr. Grey," she told her, her voice sounding quite steady now.

"Yes," Bernadette agreed, "Would you like me to start putting things to right in here?"

For a moment Sister Julienne's eyes fell on Dr. Turner's still slouched frame near the corner of the room; his head bowed in grief. He really wasn't very good at dealing with the loss of a mother, Bernadette thought, ever since his wife had died. He looked as if he was falling apart. She exchanged the smallest glance with Sister Julienne.

"Something like that," Sister Julienne replied, turning away at a measured pace and leaving the room.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving them alone. It was very quiet, except for his very even breathing. She knew, then, that he was not crying. His grief was beyond tears. She stood stock still for a few moments, unsure quite what to do. A part of her was still in shock from seeing the signs of such distress on Sister Julienne's face. But equally, she knew that she had been sent for because she was the only one who could help this man; and she so badly wanted to help him.

After a moment she took a tentative step forward.

"Doctor?" she spoke softly to him.

He did reply or look up. She took another step, and then another, until she was standing beside his sunken frame. Slowly, as tenderly as she could, she laid a hand on his shoulder. He started a little in surprise, but allowed her hand to remain. She hoped to convey all the care, all the love, yes, love, she was sure of that now, in this moment, through that one touch of the palm of her hand on his back.

After a moment, she crouched carefully down beside him to be able to look at his face. The sight before her made up her mind.

"Doctor," she repeated kindly. There seemed little point in asking him if he was alright. Her right hand remaining in the middle of his back, her left rested carefully on his knee, "Doctor, it isn't your fault."

"I know," he replied, "It's no one's fault. No one could have saved her after she haemorrhaged. That's why it's such an awful waste."

She felt his breathing beside her, heavy with distress and the fight to regain his composure. Without thinking about it, her hand moved gently back and forth on his back, as if she were soothing a child.

"And that poor man out there," he added, "His wife dying on the day his son was born. Having to raise his son alone. It isn't right."

Just like you, she thought sadly.

"He might not be alone," she told him, trying to console him, "If he is, we will help him in any way we can."

She had thought she was the one being tested. What had she had to bear, compared to this man who had been left alone to raise his child, to serve the community as best he could? And vowing to love God alone is all very well, but what better way to love God than to love one of his children who so desperately needs love themselves. There was no difference in loving God and loving this man, different as the two things were. Only this way she could enrich another human life rather than just her own. His knee, his back were warm under her touch. She heard his breath sharpen as if he was about to sob.

"Please, Doctor, don't. You're not alone," she told him.

He needed her. It was as simple as that. And he loved her. He wanted to make her happy.

"It's so hard," he told her, in little more than a whisper.

"I know that now," she replied, "That's why I think God has sent me to you. For you."

As she said it she felt her heart swell, almost grow heavier with the incredible feeling that the words cost her. Except they did not cost her anything at all. They were true.

For the first time, he looked up and straight at her. His face was transformed by surprise, his sadness momentarily gone. Then, he broke out into the faintest of smiles.

"No, you're wrong," he replied, then, wryly, "Sister Julienne sent you."

She could not help but give him a little smile back.

"Perhaps. But I think she was acting in the best interests of the Lord. As usual."

His posture had straightened, his head no longer resting on his fists. His hand covered hers on his knee.

"Thank you," he told her, their eyes meeting.

She felt herself swallow hard. He was looking at her with a burning gratitude, an intense thankfulness and deep love.

She could think of nothing more to say.

"Thank you," he told her again, "Take all the time you need. But thank you."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	6. Chapter 6

Summoning her courage, she tapped gently on the door, and waited. She tried to tell herself that this was only Sister Julienne who she was going to see- God only knew, there couldn't be a kinder woman alive- but the enormity of what she was about to say seemed evermore to threaten to engulf her. She shifted slightly from foot to foot, waiting for a reply. Everything that she had thought was possibly changeable, and if she was honest a little more, was about to become so very different.

But she was staunch in her conviction. What was of ultimate importance would remain; it couldn't not. She was glad that she had the peace of mind that came with having reached a decision, though perhaps the decision itself still needed a little more nurture. Her mind was made up; she had thought it through for long enough, over and over. She had promised him. Once she said it, now, out-loud to Sister Julienne, everything would feel better. It would be alright.

"Come in," she heard Sister Julienne's voice call from the other side of the office door.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and entered, still rather timidly. Sister Julienne smiled when she saw who her visitor was.

"Ah, Sister," she addressed her kindly, "I am glad to see you."

"I was wondering if I might talk to you," Bernadette told her, "About-..." she could not quite put it into words until the conversation had at least properly begun.

"Of course, child," Sister Julienne told her in reply nevertheless, "Please, sit down."

Bernadette sat down in the chair at the other side of the desk; unable, quite to relax all the way into its back. She still felt uneasy, and shifted a little, trying to feel more comfortable. Sister Julienne was watching her closely.

"I take it," she began gently, "That you want to talk about the matter which has given you some trouble for a while now?"

"Yes," Bernadette nodded, and then, with a great effort of courage and nerve, "I have reached a decision."

"So soon?" Sister Julienne asked her, her eyebrows inclining a touch, though not severely. When Bernadette looked surprised, she added, "Child, it can take some sisters many months, years even, to come to a decision over matters such as this."

"I know," Bernadette assured her, "I know that well enough, Sister."

"And is that why you're unsure?" Sister Julienne asked her, "Do you feel like you've decided too quickly."

"Not too quickly," Bernadette replied, emphasising as much with the firmness of her tone, "I am sure. Believe me, Sister, I am certain now of what I should do, what I want to do. But," she added after a moment, "I continue to wonder if my justification is sufficient. My conviction in my course of action is strong, but not in my reasoning. Sister, I am used to having guidance. More guidance at least, than this."

"I have been frightened of guiding you too firmly in case you committed yourself to a decision that was not really your own," Sister Julienne confided in her, almost as an inadvertently uttered thought, then asked."Would it help if I told you what I think?"

"Yes," Bernadette replied, "A great deal."

There was a silence.

"Sister," Sister Julienne reminded her gently, "In order to do that, I must first know what it is that you have decided to do."

"Yes," Bernadette smiled briefly before her expression was once again replaced by one of mild anxiety, "Of course."

There was quiet for a moment, then she said, "I wish to leave the order."

Sister Julienne was quiet, waiting next for the reasoning.

"There is a home for me," Bernadette told her, partly to explain, part to to assure.

She nodded slowly, taking that in.

"Has Dr. Turner offered to marry you?" she asked.

"He asked me to," Bernadette replied, nodding a little, "On the morning when he brought me back from delivering the Grey's little boy."

"That was two weeks ago," Sister Julienne reminded her.

And she remembered it as if it were only a moment ago. They had both stayed for long after Jenny and Sister Julienne returned to Nonnatus House. Once they had collected themselves, they had obliged Mr. Grey by making his wife's body more presentable and tidying the devastation of the room. Dr. Turner, as her G.P. filled out her death certificate and Bernadette talked to Mr. Grey, making sure he knew everything he needed to about caring for his son and arranging when he should have his first home visit to check on the baby's progress. By the time they left it was nearly dawn, they could hardly bear to leave the widower or his son. He drove her back to Nonnatus House and they sat in the car as the grey light spread across the sky. And they talked, smoke a cigarette each, and he told her he wanted to marry her.

"Yes," Bernadette agreed, "Since then I have been turning things over in my mind. He said that he would wait, I mustn't make any decision hastily. He said that even if I wanted to live alone for a while after I left the order, take my time to find my way back into the world, he would want to marry me in the end, and there would be a home for me."

She could feel the warmth in her own tone as she spoke, and knew there was a slight smile on her face.

Sister Julienne's eyes were twinkling kindly a little as she said: "I'll bet that was quite a speech to have heard."

"It was rather," Bernadette replied, still smiling, "But I don't want to," she added firmly, "Live alone, or even to take my time any more. I want to go to him. There's a man and a little boy who badly need to be cared for, and I need to do it. It would be wrong to delay."

"The same could be said for many families, or what remains of families, in the East End of London," Sister Julienne pointed out gently.

"I know," Bernadette replied quietly.

There was a short pause.

"Then why this family?" Sister Julienne asked her, looking at her openly with a face that implored absolute honesty, and in doing so silently asked her so many other questions.

Bernadette was silent for another moment.

"Because only by going to this family could I truly continue to serve God," she replied, "Through love. I love Dr. Turner, Sister. That's why it is worthwhile my going. Because there can truly be wholeness as there could never be if I were to go to any other family. I don't know how else to explain it. Why else does anyone marry?"

"Out of necessity, as I'm sure you know, Sister," Sister Julienne replied a little ruefully, "But I know that this is certainly not true in your case. And you think he'll make you happy?" she pressed further, "Going to this man will make you happy?"

"Yes," Bernadette replied, simply, "He loves me. And he has comfortable life that he no longer wishes to lead alone."

Sister Julienne smiled then, "I expected as much," she explained softly, "I only wanted to know that you were sure."

She smiled at her broadly now.

"Sister, if you know that you want to leave the order, I can see no means that I have to stop you, even if I wanted to. I am grateful that in leaving you feel that you will be able to continue to serve the Lord. I wish you every happiness. I only wonder how on earth I am to manage without you."

"Dr. Turner and I have discussed the possibility of my continuing to work as a midwife," Bernadette admitted, "We wanted to see if you were agreeable."

"I would be a fool to turn away such an offer," Sister Julienne replied, "But are sure that you will be able to? After all, acting as a mother to Timothy... And your own children..." she smiled almost shyly, most uncharacteristically, at the idea, "I take it the time will arrive when..."

"Yes," Bernadette confirmed, "I hope so. I would very much like to be a mother. Though we have not, as yet, discussed our plans in this area."

"No, I imagine not," Sister Julienne replied, a touch wryly, then, "The point is, will continuing to work as a midwife not become a considerable burden once you have a family to care for?"

Bernadette thought for a moment.

"I am ready to leave Nonnatus House," she replied eventually, "But I am not ready for an idle life."

"You won't ever have one being a midwife with children of your own," Sister Julienne assured her, "But I respect your wishes, and am grateful to you for your consideration to us. Like I say, I don't think we could manage without you."

"I am grateful to you too, Sister," Bernadette told her, "For everything."

Sister Julienne gave her one more, deeply warm, smile.

"I will leave you to decide when you want to break this news to the rest of the house," she told her, "I imagine, I should warn you, that they will all be astonished, to varying degrees. And I wish you all the joy that can possibly be wished."

**There will very possibly be an epilogue tomorrow. Please review if you have the time. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you so much for all the reviews and feedback I've had throughout this story; it has been a delight to write for you all, and I loved writing this anyway. I wrote this before Sunday's episode in case the episode broke my heart- just a precaution. It's a little bit different, but I feel as if all the characters I ship deserve happiness at some point, so now it's their turn. **

**Epilogue.**

She lay in bed, on her left hand side, the blanket swaddled around her back in a cradle of warmth. The bedside lamp was still on, giving out a gentle yellow brightness, and her eyes lay contentedly half-open, the sight of the shoulder of her blue nightdress and her hair splayed across the pillow in front of her flooded her vision. She felt the mattress gently compress beside her and she opened her eyes fully in time to see her husband climbing into bed beside her. She felt her mouth stretch into a proper smile.

"Sorry," he murmured in soft tones, "Did I wake you?"

"I wasn't asleep," she told him, "I was waiting for you."

He reached his hand out to where hers was inclined towards his side of the bed, and as usual, he covered it gently with his own, brushing his thumb over her knuckles first then pressing the softness of his palm back over her fingers.

"Do you want to go to sleep?" he asked, "You've had a busy day, you must be tired."

"I've had a busy day and hardly seen you since we woke up," she reminded him, "Leave the light on a moment."

He smiled, leaning forward to brush his lips against hers. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his waist, feeling his stretch around her back, holding her closer to him. When they broke apart, she stayed close to him, resting her head against his chest and carefully he swept her hair out from under his head so that it was not uncomfortable for her, his arms settling back around her shoulders, but still stroking his thumb up and down so that it traced the sandy strands.

"Your hair is beautiful," he told her quietly, "I can't quite believe you kept it hidden all those years."

"It isn't as if I had a choice," she reminded him gently.

"True," he conceded, thoughtfully, "I used to imagine that your hair would be dark. I don't know why."

"Did you?" she asked, surprised, "And were you pleased or disappointed when you saw what it was really like?"

"I think it's beautiful," he repeated softly, "Now I wouldn't have you any other way. The colour; it's like sand and wood and fire in depending on the light, but it's always as soft as cotton-..."

She giggled a little. She still found it a little bit strange whenever he talked to her like that. He just smoothed her back, kissing her forehead.

"You're just beautiful," he told her, sounding slightly tired.

She looked up at him, and saw that he had his eyes closed.

"Sorry," she apologised, "It's just... still funny to hear you talk like that. I'm not used to it."

"It's alright," he told her, his tone warm again, "I know you're not. I still intend to try to make you get used to it, though."

"Well," she replied, smiling,"That's very much your decision."

Ever since their wedding day, perhaps even earlier, he had told her frequently how beautiful he thought she was, how he loved her. It was definitely strange at first, given that she had never even been courted before now, but now she was certainly beginning to like it in earnest. She wrapped her arms more snugly around him, still smiling, think of their wedding day; and the young midwives all in their best dresses and carrying flowers- Jenny catching her bouquet-; of Chummy being her matron of honour; of Sister Julienne beaming throughout the proceedings; of Sister Evangelina looking staunchly disapproving until the time came for the exchange of vows, when her face somehow softened, looked more kindly. She thought of him, holding her hand before the alter, before God, as she vowed to love them both. Of him walking arm in arm with her out of the church and gently kissing her as Sister Monica Joan covered them in far too many rose petals.

"Are you alright?" he asked her after her period of silence.

"Yes," she answered.

"Then what are you thinking of?" he asked kindly, his voice just timid enough to let her know that it was her choice whether or not she told him.

"About our wedding day," she told him, "And about how I love you."

"I love you too," he told her, kissing her again.

Then, to her surprise, rather out of the blue, "Darling, are you pregnant?"

"What makes you ask that?" she wondered, a little alarmed, "And, no, I don't think I am."

"I just wondered," he told her, "Yesterday, at the clinic, you looked like you were very happy with those babies. You were very careful with them."

"I should hope I was careful," she reminded him lightly, "I am a nurse."

"You know what I mean," he told her, "A brooding sort of careful."

"Oh, that. I don't think I'm brooding," she decided, "But that's not to say I would be upset if a child did come along."

"Just we've never discussed it before," he pointed out, "And we've been married-..."

"A month and three weeks on Friday."

"Well, quite," he finished. There was a pause. "You know things can take time, darling?" he told her softly.

"I know," she replied, "I wouldn't mind if they did take a little longer. I'm happy just as we are; the three of us."

"Yes, the three of us," he agreed happily, "You know Timothy thinks the world of you? He told me so. He actually said the other day as he was getting ready for school, it was nice to have a mother again."

"I'm pleased," she told him, beaming a little, "I like being a mother. I a convent you call people Mother and Sister, but it's so very different."

"It must be," he agreed, "I can hardly imagine."

"It's not a bad kind of different," she explained, "But I much prefer it this way. Having a real family."

"We don't have to have a child if you don't want to," he told her, "There are ways. It is your choice."

She smiled at him, silencing him softly with a touch of her hand on his arm.

"I want to have children," she told him, "I very much want to have your children. But no rush," she told him.

"No," he agreed happily, "No rush. Shall I put the light out?" he asked after a moment.

"You probably should," she replied.

He stretched over, switching it off and then turned back to her, scooping her back into his arms. After over a decade of sleeping alone in the sometimes-freezing room at Nonnatus House, she had not yet grow tired of the luxury of spending the whole night in his arms.

"You know Chummy and Fred are taking the Cubs camping at the weekend," he told her, "Timothy asked me if he could go. I didn't see why not."

"And it'll give us the house to ourselves," she told him. There was a definite catch, an undertone, to her voice and he did not miss it.

"You're a wicked woman, Mrs Turner," he told her, pretending to be rueful, "For one who used to be of the cloth."

She laughed a little, then was quiet and thought.

"When you make love to me I don't feel impure or wicked," she told him levelly, in a quiet voice, "I was worried at first that I might, but I don't. I feel fulfilled. Like I've really lived. And loved ."

"Oh, darling," he kissed her forehead. "That can't be a reproach."

"It wasn't meant to be," she told him.

"Every day I thank God for you, you know," he told her.

"But you don't believe in him," she reminded him gently.

"I know," he replied, "But I still thank him for you every day. Goodnight, darling."

"Goodnight," she replied, returning his final kiss and settling her head back down, even though now she was sure she was too happy to sleep.

**End.**

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